Eine Kleine Nacht Musik A Little Night Music
by RoseLight
Summary: Kuryakin encourages a prodigy torn between math and music.


EINE KLEINE NACHT MUSIK

"A Little Night Music"

ACT 1 Maybe we could die together…

The fringe of her shawl swayed as she glided across the darkened floor to the blond's table and sat across from him without introduction or invitation.

"I've missed you," she confided, whisper-close. "I always sing better when you're here." She spoke like she sang, contralto, melodious, a slight pause off-beat.

"I'm Skylark Sheridan." She held a delicate hand towards him and he clasped it with both of his. When he released her, she turned his hand over and planted her lips gently in the nest of his palm.

"I know." He also knew her current address, her zodiac sign, her dress size, her credit card balance, her amazing Daimler-Hertzog scores, the stamps on her passport.

"You travel, " she deduced. "You disappear for a week or so, then you're back here every night. But you've never asked me-"

Her unspoken question evoked a melancholy smile and a simple shrug from him. Her proximity, the smoky jasmine incense, the music and the vodka, his exhaustion, all conspired to loosen his tongue. "To what purpose? We meet and share a glorious time together, something goes wrong, and just to see your shadow breaks my heart so I don't dare come here anymore and I really like this place-" he broke off the rambling and stared at her. "The candlelight makes you look sweeter, somehow...less sophisticated, out of the spotlight..."

Illya Kuryakin was not certain he approved of the Alley Cat Club's experiment to break from traditional jazz to feature college folk and protest music. But then Skylark Sheridan had been engaged, and been performing for nearly four months now. She used her face and body as expressively as her voice, to create a totally sensual experience for her audience. Graceful and genuine, she was tender with ballads, and throbbed with passion on protest songs.

"Maybe, to the purpose of that 'glorious time together' "she suggested softly. "Then maybe we could die together, heart to heart, before we broke up."

He looked at her curiously.

"Or maybe you could find a different club. Or I could become a star, or win a Nobel Prize …" she continued to weave her fantasy. "I've asked around. No one knows who you are, just 'the blond in black, right-corner vodka.' If you're determined we can't share eternity together, would you at least share your name with me?"

One of the scruffy wait staff drifted by to refill his glass, and Skye discreetly covered it with her hand. "You know, you really should try our triple expresso with whipped cream and nutmeg…"

Before he could manage a response, the stress of double-duty caught up with him and his head fell forward onto the table with a clunk.

The bouncer ambled by, and prepared to have her mystery man hauled away.

"No, wait, Stan," she defended the blond. "He's not dead drunk, he's dead tired. He's no bother"

"Can't leave him here," he grunted.

"I know, but you can't just toss out the president of my fan club. You'll wait 'til I finish this last set, yes? I'll call a cab and drop him off on my way."

Stan snorted. "You can't afford a cab on what we pay you. And you can't just keep pickin' up strays," he advised. Still, he pressed a bill into her hand.

"Good karma for you, Stan." She pecked his cheek. "It's a good cause."

"Hmf. You gotta lotta causes, an' all of 'em are good, " he huffed away. After several months of listening to her social protest songs, he was almost converted to grab a placard himself and march in protest of something.

ACT 2 Music Lesson

Awakening in unfamiliar surroundings, he examined the place cautiously through slitted eyes. Cramped, bare, but a residence, evidently, not a cell. So he breathed deeply and lay quietly, observing his hostess top to bottom.

She wore her hair long and straight as was the fashion. Tiny squared wire-rimmed glasses magnified her eyes, gray as rain at sea. An embroidered peasant blouse bared her pretty shoulders and her granny skirt swished softly when she moved, feet in strapped sandals. My first hippie, he mused.

She smiled and ceremonially offered him a teacup.

"Won't you join me?" he asked. Not that he was suspicious, or anything...

She shook her head. "There's just one cup. I've learned to hold lightly to the treasures of this world. And I don't welcome many guests."

Kuryakin accepted the drink gratefully, first warming his hands around the cup, and looked around. The apartment was as sparsely furnished as his own. He made a face at the first sip of her brew.

"It's herbal," she warned him. "I know you prefer vodka, but I never touch the stuff. Alcohol, tobacco...ruins the vocal chords."

"Of course. One must always be open to fresh experiences." He choked down the seaweed slop manfully, only vaguely wondering where one obtained swamp water in the heart of the east village.

# # # # #

Illya Kuryakin had been fascinated by Skyler Sheridan for years. He first encountered her as the prize exhibit at a science conference. "Shy Skye" was a mathematics prodigy being groomed by government educators for "future special projects." Illya empathized with the young girl, who looked uncomfortable. It reminded him of his own difficult childhood as an acknowledged gifted child.

In the next few years, he ran across her name in technical journals, short paragraphs applauding her latest achievements and honors. Then, about six months ago, the news of her disappearance.

Of course, it was merely an inch of ink, buried in a back section of the Times, since she was not a drugged-up sports star or a pregnant rock starlet. She was merely a brilliant, beautiful mind.

Strangely, there seemed to be no hue and cry in the world of government, science, or espionage to find the missing girl. Kuryakin adopted her as his pet project for his spare time. He had access to resources and contacts, and made a few phone calls, and followed up when he was off-duty. And about six weeks later, he discovered her, serendipitously, at his favorite jazz club.

He observed her there several times, satisfied himself that she was not under duress or danger, and then just settled back to enjoy her music.

"How long have you been studying?"

"Lessons since I was three—piano, guitar, oboe. But it's hard to travel with a piano strapped to your back, so I learned this," she drew out a 10 inch nickel plated harmonica. She handed it to Illya who turned it over in his hands. With Skye nodding approval, he put it to his lips.

"Now, inhale sharp and quick, like the little gasp of surprise when you suddenly realize you're going to be kissed. Then exhale slowly, lips lingering like you never want the kiss to end."

The squeak and squawk he produced was astoundingly un-musical and they both laughed.

"Who taught you that?"

"Kissing or harmonica?" she teased.

"Can you teach me?"

"My pleasure..." and his eyes widened with that little gasp when she circled her arms around his neck and claimed his mouth.

ACT 3 "You're the one they warned me about…"

Her hands wandered down his shoulders, his arms, and rested lightly south of his chest. "MMmmm...see, it's all here, from the diaphragm. Breath control". With her lips and hands and the assistance of gravity she kept pressing forward until Kuryakin's back was flattened into the couch cushions.

"Eh...young lady...Miss Sheridan..."

"Hmmm..?..."

"Perhaps we...should..."

"Mmm..."

"Ah..mmmm...discuss..."

"Oh!" she bounced back from him. "Of course! How could I be so...so impulsive.. There's something I really must know...before things get too..."

"Indeed." He used his elbows to elevate himself to a safer sitting position. " My name is-"

"Tell me the truth," she peered into his eyes. "You're not a ...a Republican, are you?"

It was not the question he had anticipated.

"Technically, I hold Soviet citizenship."

"But that's soooo perfect," she cooed and crowded him closer. "See? The union of the United States and the Soviet states-it's so perfectly symbolic-so historically-"

"Well, before you order the commemorative plaque for the couch, may I state categorically that I have never considered intimacy as a political statement."

"Everything is a political statement." Her voice had an uncharacteristic bitter edge. "Come on, blond baby, let's do our patriotic duty to thaw the Cold War, and cement US-Soviet relations.."

The child's silly flirting had become annoying. He pushed himself upright and nearly knocked her off the couch.

In a more normal voice she commented," Well, at least you have scruples. Are you really Russian? Wow, you're the one they warned me about. 'If you don't work for us, the big bad Soviet spies will smuggle you off to Siberia, with no TV and no rock-and-roll and you'll be tortured to create horrible weapons of mass destruction to decimate the American Way of Life and it'll be all your fault!'" She thrust her wrists into his face melodramatically. "OK, I surrender. Just please no chloroform-gives me a headache."

"I believe we are operating under a mistaken identity. I am Illya Kuryakin. I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, a multi-national organization-"

"It figures. When it comes to me, men are only interested in one organ-the one above my neck," she pouted.

"Miss Sheridan, you have a gift, a facility for mathematics that's...fantastic. Why did you drop out? Why abandon your education?"

"Be a good little Brain," she chanted. "Let the Feds pay for your education and funnel you into a cubicle at the Pentagon.' They don't want me to improve agriculture or produce energy. They want me to increase the kill-ratio of their bombs. I won't do it! You know, just because you're good at something does not mean you enjoy it. Math is so…dry and absolute. Take the Badenov Principle," she warmed to her subject now, since she did not have to explain everything to him. "It's an immutable law of the Universe. It's not a theory that can be challenged. The variables can't even be varied. It's always the same answer. It's always arrived at the same way."

"Whereas music..." Kuryakin followed her reasoning.

"See, you get it. I mean, Albert Einstein played violin, the chemist Borodin wrote opera…"

"I remember when I first discovered that music was the marriage of precision and passion; the revelation that I did not have to sacrifice one for the other."

"I love my parents," she said longingly," but they don't know what to do with me. Since I took those tests when I was 6, it's like I'm an alien. I'm a genetic fluke, yknow. My dad's a tool and die maker; my mother's a housewife. My Daimler results put them in awe of me-not a healthy relationship between parent and child. Can you ride a bicycle?" she asked suddenly.

"A bicycle? Yes..."

"Well, I can't. I was never allowed. It was like I might fall and hit my head and all my brains would spill out."

"So, you are rebelling against—"

"I'm not rebelling," Skye insisted. "I'm choosing my own path. My music is a gift, too. Why can't I pursue it? Why won't the Feds pay me to sing, to inspire and comfort, instead of kill?"

"In a perfect world," he muttered. "But what the others have warned you about is true. There are competing forces in the geo-political spectrum, there are good guys and bad guys, and you must align yourself: neutrality is not an option."

"I refuse to work for the military-industrial complex. Look at this-" she gestured around the bare room. "It's nothing. I could have so much if I worked for them. But I'd rather keep what I have: my integrity, my independence, my clear conscience."

Her face glowed in earnest conviction. This was a not just a spoiled suburban college drop-out in adolescent rebellion. Skye was sensitive and thoughtful, making mature decisions and accepting the consequences.

Illya found her intensity and innocence touching, nostalgic, and he felt so ancient in experience compared to her. Kuryakin had learned he could not save the world, or the whales, or Wall Street. But perhaps he could save one intellectually advanced, politically frustrated, gifted girl.

"Come along," he stretched out his hand, and took hers in a firm grip.

"You're taking me in?" Her eyes widened in alarm and disbelief at this betrayal.

"We'll get some bread and cheese and go to the park. I'm going to rent you a bicycle."

Skye fell over several times but her brains did not spill out so she considered the lesson a success.

ACT 4 M is for Music—two years later

Napoleon Solo dropped by his partner's desk. "Hey, you busy tonight?"

"Is this an interrogation or an invitation?" the Russian mumbled, without looking up from his paperwork.

"Well, Janine was all ga-ga to see some folk singer, and after I pulled all my strings to get tickets, now her grandmother died. Or she has to wash her hair. Or maybe she has to wash her grandmother's hair, I don't know. Anyway, I've got these tickets..." he waved them under Kuryakin's field of vision. Kuryakin, still concentrating on a manila file, pointed to his calendar with his free hand.

" 'M' " Solo read, and began to speculate. " 'M', huh? Majorette? Masseuse? Mime?"

Illya scowled but his pen never slowed.

Solo leaned over his desk. "Manicurist? OK, Marathon? How about a hint...Meditation? Monster movie? Murder mystery…?"

Kuryakin stretched and smiled dead in his partner's face. "Actually, M is for Mathematician. I have a long-standing engagement for a late supper with an old colleague from out of town."

"Hoo-boy. A mathematician and a physicist. Night of the Number Nerds. This dinner has 'dusty' written all over it."

"Sorry, Napoleon. Perhaps another time."

With nothing vaguely interesting awaiting him at home, Solo opted to use his ticket. From his front-row seat, the performer was more attractive than he had anticipated. During one song in particular, her eyes seemed to lock onto his, smoldering, singing directly to him. Perhaps the evening would not be wasted after all.

When the house lights came up for intermission, the clogged aisles parted as the lovely songstress waded into the audience in Solo's direction. He plucked at his tie and straightened his shoulders and prepared his most charming smile. But she passed him without a glance and was several aisles beyond him before she wrapped an enthusiastic embrace around a blond in a black turtleneck.

"You still look sweeter out of the spotlight," Illya observed, and pecked her cheek

"Thanks to you, I have spotlight and sunlight both," Skye smiled.

"I've been following your work with pride. But are you happy?" He asked the searching question that always haunted gifted children and those who care for them.

"Your packing me off to Clear Creek was the best thing that could've happened to me. I love the campus, I love Kentucky. And under David-" she blushed, "Dr. Davidovitch-I'm assisting his research into the relation of music and math. I'm still singing for my supper, there's Appalachian folk music to learn..."

"Yes, I see you've added dulcimer to the act."

"I've even started fiddling around with numbers again. And-" she confided excitedly into his ear," I believe I've actually discovered a Badenov variable!"

"Good evening, Illya," Solo greeted as intrusively as possible.

"Ah, Napoleon. Sorry we can't invite you to join us after the performance, but we wouldn't want to bore you. Just a couple of number nerds sharing a dusty dinner."

"But-"

She tugged at Kuryakin's sleeve. "You promised to open the second set with me and we haven't rehearsed in ages. "

"Our song?"

She nodded. "Bicycle Built for One."

"But— "

"Sorry, Napoleon," although Kuryakin did not appear to be one bit sorry. "But the show must go on."

Finis


End file.
